David Bowie A life

Review by New York Times Review

AN ORAL HISTORY of David Bowie is almost an act of redundancy. His whole career was an exercise in fragmentation and disconnection, a hodgepodge of widely varied aesthetic propositions and provisional identities that any hundred people could take a hundred different ways. "He gave you what you wanted," the journalist Angus MacKinnon recalled to the pop-culture writer and editor Dylan Jones for "David Bowie: A Life," the first major book about Bowie to be published since his death in January 2016. "If you were in shades and tight black leather trousers he would give you the rock and roll interview, and if you were me, wearing drainpipe cords and a tweed jacket and the air of the rock pseudointellectual about you, he would give you that.... It must have been exhausting to be David Bowie." "David Bowie: A Life" brings together excerpts from interviews with some 200 people who knew Bowie - or believed or suspected or imagined things about him, having been granted temporary access to parts of the many personas Bowie parceled out over more than 50 years as a performer. The author, a longtime Bowie watcher who interviewed his subject on multiple occasions and wrote an earlier book about him, "When Ziggy Played Guitar," has the cred necessary to land most of the key players in Bowie's life, from Peter Frampton, one of Bowie's childhood friends, to Iman, Bowie's widow. The book delivers expert and entertaining testimony from Tony Visconti, the producer who worked extensively with Bowie from his early years to his last recordings; Brian Eno, the composer and producer who collaborated with Bowie on the trilogy of albums ("Low," '"Heroes'" and "Lodger") that are among his most highly regarded; Elton John, who goes through no effort to disguise his displeasure with his onetime colleague in the making of space-oriented, sexually transgressive pop; the guitarists Mick Ronson and Carlos Alomar; Coco Schwab, Bowie's longtime personal assistant and protector; and others such as the actress/publicist Cherry Vanilla and the singer Ava Cherry, who, along with countless other women (and perhaps some, if not as many, men), had affairs (or just sex) with Bowie. Organized chronologically with interstitial text by Jones to fill in biographical data and provide some context here and there, the book covers Bowie's life from his middle-class upbringing in Brixton, in South London, and then Kent, on the city's outskirts, to his final years of lowkey, nearly anonymous life with his wife and their young daughter in Lower Manhattan. Raised by a cinemausher mother and a public-relations-executive father, David Jones grows up with a taste for Hollywood glamour and a sense of the power of hoopla. Longtime Bowie followers will have read elsewhere about this, as well as the family history of mental illness that affected at least two of his maternal aunts (Bowie sometimes claimed all three of his mother's sisters committed suicide, but the book is more circumspect) and his older half brother, Terry, who was understood to be schizophrenic and was institutionalized for a time. Bowie would talk of his brother sparingly, but with affectionate gratitude, acknowledging Terry for introducing him to Beat literature and jazz, the emblems of American cool for postwar youth everywhere. As Jones quotes Bowie: "I guess most of us have battled with reality and something else all of our lives. I think Terry probably gave me the greatest, serviceable education that I ever could have had. He just introduced me to the outside things." The dynamics between the real and the imagined, facts and artifice, the "true" self and performance - the great themes of David Bowie's work - provide the otherwise scattershot materials of "David Bowie: A Life" with a semblance of continuity. In a charming recollection of Bowie's childhood, his old friend George Underwood describes Bowie's father taking the two boys to a public appearance by Duncan Renaldo, a B-movie actor who played in kiddie cowboy adventures as "the Cisco Kid." Renaldo was accompanied by Leo Carrillo, who portrayed the comic sidekick Pancho on screen. "After we'd chatted to the Cisco Kid for a while," Underwood recalls, Carrillo "leaned in and whispered to us, and, in a strong Mexican accent, said, 'He is the real Cisco Kid.' We all thought he was a fictional character, but it stuck with us." After a conventional pop-music apprenticeship, trying out rock, blues and folkrock in bands with interchangeable names like the King Bees, the Night Timers and the Lower Third, David Jones took up the surname Bowie to avoid confusion with Davy Jones of the Monkees. He escaped association with a made-for-TV act tainted by its fakeness, and proceeded to implode the whole paradigm of authenticity in rock by glorying in a radically plastic, sexually indefinite persona that was essentially a kind of anti-persona - less an image than a capacity to accommodate any identity at will. A genuinely transformative figure, Bowie changed the way people thought about rock stardom by abandoning everything but change itself. "He didn't like being comfortable," Carlos Alomar points out. "Comfortable is genre-driven, and be careful, because it will outlive you and it will surpass you. David had a lovely saying, 'Let go, or be dragged.' ... It was change, change, change. Bryan Ferry would introduce something and stay there. David would introduce something and leave it." Angus MacKinnon attributes Bowie's restlessness as an artist to basic insecurity. There's no knowing the truth in such conjecture, of course. But this is oral history in which amateur pathology runs as freely as insight, tale-telling and gossip. "His selfanalysis was lacerating," MacKinnon asserts. "He talked a lot about his sense of self, and one of the things that came across, and this was not false modesty, was his constant anxiety that what he was doing wasn't quite interesting enough. Here was a person who seriously pushed himself, and constantly re-evaluated his contribution, and he found himself lacking. Blessing and curse." Gossip is surely plentiful in "David Bowie: A Life." Wendy Leigh, a Bowie biographer quoted here, says Bowie's early manager Ken Pitt was "madly in love" with his client, "and David used that." Simon Napier-Bell, an artists' manager in the '60s, was introduced to Bowie while he was still unknown and told by another manager, Ralph Horton, that if he agreed to co-manage Bowie, he "could have sex with him." The book has lots of sex - lots and lots and lots of sex - though there's no reason to believe the subject is overrepresented. Cyrinda Foxe, a groupie, recalls being summoned into Bowie's bedroom while he was having sex with another woman, because "he needed someone to talk to." At other times, Foxe would be in bed with Bowie herself while, in the next room, Bowie's wife, Angie, would be in bed with someone else. Like that. A welcome surprise of "David Bowie: A Life" is its strength on the essential subject of music making. There are multiple accounts of the speed and professionalism of Bowie's work in the recording studio, and an illuminating explanation of his cut-andpaste method of writing lyrics - a system for sustaining the elusiveness at the heart of Bowie's songs that has something in common with the way this fragmentary, disjointed oral history is constructed. As biography, this "Life" is an imperfect one. It's erratic, at once bloated and too thin, and sometimes hard to parse, with passing references to names and events that could use a bit of explanation. That is to say, it suits its subject perfectly. Bowie imploded the whole idea of authenticity in rock by glorying in a radically plastic persona. DAVID HAJDU is the author, most recently, of "Love for Sale: Pop Music in America."

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [December 3, 2017]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* One can never have enough books on David Bowie, and Jones' (Mr. Mojo: A Biography of Jim Morrison, 2015) hefty volume is unique in its use of oral history. Based on 180 interviews with friends, family members (including ex-wife Angie), musicians, writers, and producers as well as comments by Bowie himself, this conversational biography traces Bowie's life from the suburbs of London to his phenomenal success during his heyday in the 1970s and 1980s to his peripatetic life in cities around the globe and his later, more stable years in New York, where he lived in a former chocolate factory. Jones also offers his own thoughtful and insightful commentary throughout, along with fascinating observations from the interviewees. David kept up with everything, and he was especially intrigued by punk, said director Julien Temple, while Jack Hofsiss, who directed Bowie in The Elephant Man on Broadway, declares, David did not need to be directed. Bowie's widow, Iman, notes: I fell in love with David Jones his real name, I did not fall in love with David Bowie. The closing pages with Bowie working on both his off-Broadway musical, Lazarus, and his last recording, Blackstar, even as he knows he is dying from liver cancer are especially poignant. A singular addition to the Bowie bookshelf.--Sawyers, June Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this comprehensive oral history, GQ editor Jones delves deeply into the details of rock icon David Bowie's fame, financial problems, drug use, sexuality, Buddhist practices, and romantic entanglements. But it's Jones's focus on Bowie's friendships that truly shines. He has compiled extensive selections from over 180 articles, books, and original interviews (including several interviews Jones conducted with Bowie before his death in 2016). Jones doesn't dwell on his personal feelings toward Bowie, except in his introduction, where he writes: "Like everyone who grew up with the man, Bowie would confound, annoy, and occasionally disappoint me, but I never found him less than fascinating." All these facets of Bowie's personality and more are on display in anecdotes from music journalists, Bowie's bandmates and childhood neighbors, and fellow musicians such as John Lennon and Iggy Pop. Jones incorporates honest, even biting, observations ("David grew up petted and privileged," biographer Wendy Leigh notes. "He wasn't a working-class hero by any stretch")-and such inclusions contribute to the well-roundedness of this remarkable volume. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Described as "a groundbreaking oral history," this ambitious endeavor aims to broaden the David Bowie (1947-2016) legacy, and on that front, British GQ editor Jones does not disappoint. Over 180 contributors offer anecdotes of speculation, frustration, and adoration of the notoriously enigmatic music legend. Insights from known Bowie collaborators, including Peter Frampton, Angie Bowie, Earl Slick, and Iggy Pop blend with lesser-tapped sources such as makeup artists, publicists, and childhood sweethearts in an attempt to craft the mosaic of a multifaceted artist. However, the sprawling style and sheer volume of voices makes for an unwieldy, repetitive chronology. More discomfiting is the cavalier attitude with which memories of sexual trysts with underage fans are discussed by multiple participants. Frequent contradictions, some within a single story, support the overall tone of the book; Bowie was many things to many people but left a universal impression as a consummate creative with a preternatural ability to both embody and surpass the cultural zeitgeist. VERDICT Far from an "introductory course," this tome is best reserved for 301-level Starman fans. [See Prepub Alert, 4/24/17.]-Ashleigh Williams, School Library Journal © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A sweeping, gossipy biography of the chameleonic pop star in the form of an oral history, with input from dozens of collaborators, lovers, and admirers.Bowie himself weighs in, too, as longtime music journalist and British GQ editor Jones (Elvis Has Left the Building: The Day the King Died, 2014, etc.) scored excellent access to Bowie and his cohort. However, Bowie's contributions are mostly gnomic pronouncementse.g., "my art has little to do with trends, and nothing at all to do with style." For details (and dirt), Jones finds producers Tony Visconti and Brian Eno, who weigh in on Bowie's approach to recording (game for anything but impatient); fashion and music journalists, who were wowed by his path-breaking 1970s performances; his first wife, Angie, who had an embattled relationship with the singer as he deeply indulged in sex and cocaine in the mid-'70s. (Deep Purple's Glenn Hughes recalls "so many girls coming and going one by one, nonstop.") Bowie's musical output after the early 1980s is generally dismissed as cravenly commercial and/or lazy, but Jones' interlocutors tend to argue even Bowie's miscues reflect the same seeking spirit that produced "Ziggy Stardust"; he just became more interested in acting and art collecting and had settled down with his second wife, Iman. Jones unearths quirky bits of Bowie-ana (he wanted to sing a duet with Mick Jagger from a space shuttle) and details his highly creative months preceding his death from cancer in 2016. But the occupational hazard of oral histories is that they lack broader context, and a hermetically sealed, accentuate-the-positive feel intensifies in closing pages thick with encomiumsthough the author does make room for critic Paul Gorman's assessment: "he made execrable records during 1984-1995, often wore terrible clothes, stupid makeup and had rotten haircuts." Jones captures his subject's transformations and the responses they provoked, but the tone is fan-friendly, assuming Bowie's greatness rather than arguing for it. A dishy but overstuffed and overly praiseful portrait. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1 Living in Lies by the Railway Line 1947-1969 He was a postwar baby, born in London in 1947. He was part of the new world, two years after the end of the old. A London baby. He went to school in Brixton before being cast out to the suburbs. Even when he was young he knew he wanted to be bigger than he was, wanted to be a bigger man. When he started to work in advertising he thought he'd broken through, but he had no idea what was to come. In the beginning, he was feeling his way--he was in the Kon-Rads, the King Bees, the Mannish Boys, David Jones and the Buzz, Davey Jones and the Lower Third, Feathers, the Hype--but he had no idea who he was going to be when he'd finished. David Jones was born on January 8, 1947, at 40 Stansfield Road, Brixton, the son of a cinema usherette and a promotions officer for Barnardo's. He lived there until he was six, when his family moved farther out to Bromley in Kent. While his father was middle class, his mother came from a poor, working-class family. David used to say that there was a dark cloud over her side of the family, as it was full of mental instability. When he let his guard down, or when he wanted to amplify that side of his upbringing, he would say that "tragically" two or three of his aunts committed suicide. He would say that this seemed to be something he would hear constantly while growing up: How so-and-so has left us now. He said once, "I guess most of us have battled with reality and something else all of our lives. I think [my elder half-brother] Terry probably gave me the greatest, serviceable education that I ever could have had. He just introduced me to the outside things. The first real major event for me was when he passed Jack Kerouac's On the Road on to me, which really changed my life. He also introduced me to people like John Coltrane, which was way above my head, but I saw the magic and I caught the enthusiasm for it because of his enthusiasm for it. And I kinda wanted to be like him." Terry--the savant of cool jazz--would adumbrate his life as a sort of ticking clock of impending, accelerated mortality. As for his mother's sisters, his aunt Vivienne was diagnosed with schizophrenia, his aunt Una died in her late thirties having experienced periods in a mental institution as well as electric shock treatment, while Aunt Nora actually had a lobotomy because of her "bad nerves." David Bowie: I had a very happy childhood, seriously nothing wrong with it. I was lonely but I never really wanted and certainly never went hungry, but I obviously saw people deprived around me and kids going to school with their shoes falling apart and kids looking like urchins. It left an impression on me that I never ever wanted to be hungry, or at the wrong end of society. Kristina Amadeus (David's cousin): David's parents, especially his father, "John" Jones, encouraged him from the time he was a toddler. His mother, Peggy, spoke often of our deceased grandfather, who was a bandmaster in the army and played many wind instruments. David's first instruments, a plastic saxophone, a tin guitar, and a xylophone, were given to him before he was an adolescent. He also owned a record player when few children had one. When he was eleven we danced like possessed elves to the records of Bill Haley, Fats Domino, and Elvis Presley. David's father took him to meet singers and other performers preparing for the Royal Variety Performance. I remember one afternoon in the late '50s when David was introduced to Dave King, Alma Cogan, and Tommy Steele. "My son is going to be an entertainer too," he said. "Aren't you, David?" "Yes, Daddy," David squeaked in his childish high-pitched voice, his face flushed and beaming with pride. Although Uncle John never lived to see David's huge success, he was convinced it would become a reality. Wendy Leigh (biographer): David grew up petted and privileged. He wasn't a working-class hero by any stretch. It was actually quite a suburban life, even though it was in south London, in Brixton. His father was the number-one PR at Dr. Barnardo's, so David was immersed in the idea of presentation from a very young age. He was taken to all the shows by his father, introduced to celebrities, and he learned how to promote, how to sell himself. No one ever talks about the fact that he was incredibly influenced by his father, who had access to this exciting outside world. Every performer needs to be a great seducer, and David learned that from an early age. His father showed him a lot of love. He showed him how to get on, how to charm, and how to practice the art of being nice. George Underwood (childhood friend): His dad was lovely, a really nice gentle man. His mum, well, even David didn't like his mum. She wasn't an easy person to get on with. She was very cold. Very insular. I think that's why he liked coming round to my house, because my parents were totally different. "Hello, David, want a cup of tea, David?" My parents were very welcoming, but this wasn't what would happen round at his house. Mrs. Jones would hardly ever say anything to me. I'm not sure what it was, but she was never happy. She always gave David such a hard time. Don Arden (manager): I was brought up in Brixton around the same time as David Bowie, and everyone thinks it was a tough place, but it was actually rather nice and full of variety artists. Half the houses were owned by [Trinidadian pianist] Winifred Atwell, who had bought them for investment purposes, and she used to rent them out to music-hall acts and light entertainers. John Major lived a few streets away from me, and his dad was an acrobat and juggler. It later turned into a rougher neighborhood, but at the time we were brought up there it was very arty-crafty. If you were an artist in London, in music hall or variety, or in showbiz of one kind or another, that's where you lived. So Bowie was surrounded by this extremely artistic community. It was vibrant in that way. He wasn't just a performer, wasn't just a singer-songwriter, he was an artist, and he got that because of where he was brought up. I'd go into the arcade in Brixton, under the railway arches, and buy my reggae and jazz records there, and David would do the same thing. We had local people round to dinner all the time, and they were all in the business, people like Dickie Henderson. There were also lots of places to go and see acts too, as the area fed off the people who lived there. So it's no surprise he turned out the way he did. Anne Briggs (neighbor): For a time as children we lived at Clapham in South London and were regular visitors to Brixton Market. There were all manner of traders, hawkers, stalls selling anything--Technicolor clothing which only the new residents of Brixton would wear, fruit piled up on shiny green fake grass cloths, vegetables of all kinds, and barrow boys with such constant and witty sales patter that people would gather round to listen and heckle. There were the West Indian traders with their Caribbean vegetables and lilting speech encouraging passersby to try their vegetables and fruit. Then there were buskers, always with their promoters, either providing music or awe-inspiring feats of physical flexibility, juggling or occasionally sword swallowers, all with their constant conversation attracting the crowd. Tanks of writhing eels in slightly murky water alongside stalls shrouded in white selling the little pots of jellied eels--no doubt to emphasize their freshness . . . ​Cockles, winkles and shrimps were measured in old half pint and pint tankards. Pills and potions offering miracle cures of some sort or another--if we hovered to try and read the packets we were whisked away. Geoff MacCormack (childhood friend): I first met David when I was seven, at Burnt Ash Primary School, when he moved to Bromley--we had little brown uniforms. I'd already met George Underwood when I was four, at the local church school, St. Mary's. I was in the cubs with David, in the choir together. We bonded over music, and both loved rock and roll, and as we grew older loved Little Richard. The Britain we grew up in was really quite grubby. There were still rations until the '50s, and you'd walk to school via bomb sites. The music was bad, there was no decent food, and everything was gray, so when American music came along it completely changed everything. David's father used to fund-raise with the stars of the day, people like Dickie Henderson and Tommy Steele. I initially thought David was an only child, as he was only ever the only child in the house. I only found out much later that he had a brother. We never discussed it. I think it was a mutual understanding, as I had a brother who left home early to join the forces. He moved abroad and he wasn't in my life either. So it was almost a mirror thing. David had a good relationship with his father, and he was always quite generous. He would always buy him records, and he got a lot of records through work. His father used to get American music that we'd never heard before and most of the country have never heard before. Most of the rock and roll we heard in this country was rerecorded by British artists for labels like Embassy that we used to buy in Woolworths. So to hear the real thing was quite rare and a real treat. David had Fats Domino's "Blueberry Hill" when that came out, "Hound Dog" by Elvis Presley. He also had "I Put a Spell on You" by Screamin' Jay Hawkins, although David's mother wouldn't let him play it in the house as she thought it was the devil's music, which I suppose it was in a way. Our favorite was Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers, "I'm Not a Juvenile Delinquent." When he did The Next Day, I told him I loved it, and he actually said, "It's not 'I'm Not a Juvenile Delinquent,' but it'll do." I remember him lending me a couple of records and I left them on the windowsill in the breakfast room at home, and they melted in the sun. It was really upsetting to him when I gave them back to him. About seven years ago I came across a bunch of 78s, including Frankie Lymon and "Hound Dog," and I had a case made and sent them to him. We had an upbeat relationship that was based around stupidity and silliness. It was always like that, and that's what we provided, fun in each other's lives. So it never occurred to me to ask questions about his family, as it seemed intrusive. And not what we were about. He never asked me about family life either. Everything was at face value. But David was a born performer. That was the drive, the ambition. He wanted to express himself. We drifted apart for a while when we went to different schools. George and David were art school boys, whereas I went to a secondary modern. I was a mod. I would go up to the West End, get some purple hearts, go to the Scene, the Flamingo, Discotheque. Whereas George and David were on the fringes, going to jazz clubs. We always stayed in contact but then reconnected when we were living in the same area around South Kensington in the '60s. I suppose we were pseudo-French then, trousers with turn-ups, brogues, and bikes with an engine on the front wheel. David Bowie: My cousin Kristina was a huge Fats Domino fan and had "Blueberry Hill" and I had Elvis Presley's "Hound Dog" and we did a trade because I preferred the sound of that. What I liked about it was that I couldn't understand the lyrics and that really made an impression on me--there was some secret information there that I didn't have. I think that's been something that's been important to me ever since. It was [Little Richard's] sax lineup he had behind him that impressed me more than anything else, because I'd only heard the saxophone through my brother's records as being a jazz thing and that was too complicated for me. I was always very vain. I always liked clothes a lot, I guess it was my way of confirming I had a personality, not really being sure if I did or didn't. If you wore clothes of a certain nature you automatically were a personality because clothes maketh men, but going up [to London] on the train there was a guy with makeup on and he was a mod. He wore eye shadow and he looked rather peculiar and I thought he looked rather good. One of my keenest memories of the Marquee club in the mid-'60s is having a permanent erection because there were so many fantastic girls coming over from Europe. All these Swedish girls were flocking to London to come and get an R&B star, so you grew your hair really long and hoped that they recognized you as [the Yardbirds'] Keith Relf--I made a better Keith Relf than Brian Jones. Anyway I hung out with Jonesy a few times and he was too short and fat. Kristina Amadeus: I don't remember him being worried about being lower middle class. His father was from a very affluent family who were partners in the Public Benefit Boot Company. He went to a good public school and inherited money when he came of age. David's grandfather was killed at the end of WWI and his wife died the following year, so John inherited from both his parents and his own grandfather. But David did, like Jagger, adopt an almost Cockney accent for a while because it was trendy. David Bowie: Elvis had the choreography, he had a way of looking at the world that was totally original, totally naïve, and totally available as a blueprint. Who wouldn't want to copy Elvis? Elvis had it all. It wasn't just the music that was interesting, it was everything else. And he had a lot of everything else. (There was once talk between our offices that I should be introduced to Elvis and maybe start working with him in a production-writer capacity, but it never came to pass. I would have loved working with him. God, I would have adored it. He did send me a note once: "All the best and have a great tour.") Excerpted from David Bowie by Dylan Jones All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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